


Like Cupping Water (In Your Hands)

by boxparade



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hockey, Kid Fic, M/M, Marriage, it gets kinda really fluffy at the end ok?, original character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:45:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxparade/pseuds/boxparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are you sure it’s in there?" Kaner asks, poking indelicately at Annie’s stomach and squinting.  </p><p>"Kaner," Jon hisses, slapping at his hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Cupping Water (In Your Hands)

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> First (posted) work in this fandom, if not the first one I've written, so be nice? I'm sure my characterization is horrible. #yolo
> 
> [My hockey blog](http://blackhawkks.tumblr.com).
> 
> ::WARNINGS::
> 
> Stillbirth (7-8 months). Implied infidelity. Hate sex. And a lot of drama.
> 
> I promise I fix what can be fixed.
> 
> ::::
> 
> Comments VERY welcome. Concrit also very welcome, even encouraged.

JULY

 

Kaner is smiling, doused in sunlight, pulling Jon out onto the back porch of the house in Buffalo, saying "Dance with me, Jonny." Pushing Jon into the freezing lake, laughing when he comes up sputtering, swearing revenge. They take three-hour naps in the middle of the day for no reason at all. They cheat on their diets. Jon pretends not to notice when Kaner skimps on his workout. Kaner pretends not to see Jon sneaking one, two, (and once, three) extra cookies from the tupperware container Donna brought over last week. They fall asleep out on the back porch, with the cool wind coming in off the lake. Kaner kicks his legs until the blanket covers all of them. Jon bitches at him to stop fidgeting. Kaner tucks his frigid hand under Jonny’s side, until he jumps and squirms awake, swearing and hitting at Kaner. They fuck in every room in the house, laughing and biting and bitching at each other about sharp counters, strained legs, puddles of lake water soaking into the rugs. They make love out on the beach, under the stars. Sand gets everywhere, and it’s disgusting, but Patrick links their fingers together, thumbs at the joint of his ring finger, says "lets get married."

"Okay," Jon says. "When?"

Patrick answers instantly, "Tomorrow."

"Hmm." Jon shifts so that he can see the stars, find Orion’s belt and the big dipper, tracing thousands of other constellations he doesn’t have names for. "Saturday," he compromises. "I’ll call my family. Get them out here."

"The guys?"

Jonny shrugs, Patrick still curled over him, both of them with sand itching in weird places, too lazy to move. "Some."

"Sharpy would never forgive us."

"Abby would smother us in our sleep."

Kaner laughs, open and bright and warm, and he presses his smile against Jon’s neck. "Okay," he whispers as his fingers trace patterns in Jon’s side. "Okay."

 

SEPTEMBER

 

Kaner charms the reporter’s panties off, and then laughs as they cut to commercial break, pressing himself closer to Jon’s side. He’s all energy and movement. It's too early in the season to be spending so much time sitting on couches under hot lights, schmoozing reporters and trying to steer the conversation back to hockey.

Jon shrugs and gives the reporter a ‘what can you do?’ look. She stares back, bemused and silent. Kaner’s everywhere, bouncing from the ice to the sidelines to the newsrooms to their new condo, lighting it all up with the kind of joy he can’t seem to tamp down anymore. Jon follows him, watchful and calm and so damn in love.

Burke keeps thanking them when they do a You Can Play video, long overdue. It’s supposed to be a somewhat somber affair, the distant memory of Brendan always lingering in the background, but it’s hard when Kaner’s in the room. He laughs at everything, jokes with the camera crew, flubs his lines and smirks before he asks innocently for a do-over. In between takes he bats his eyes ridiculously at Jon, gushing like a schoolgirl, playing it up for the crew, who are all laughing. Jon rolls his eyes and pushes him to the opposite side of the couch, says "you’re gross" and "I hate you" and "why did I marry you?" and doesn’t mean a word. They finish up and Kaner grins at him, says "your face is so stupid, I can’t believe they allow it on television." He kisses Jon right there, in front of the crew and Burke and God, and Jon is so damn happy he doesn’t even care when the crew gets a couple extra shots. None of them make it to the final cut, but Jon is playing with his ring and smiling fondly at Patrick through the whole thing anyway, and he hadn’t even noticed. He doesn’t even care.

 

OCTOBER

 

Sharpy’s got another kid. His game is so on that they slaughter the Sharks, and Sharpy invites the team over for a quiet affair a couple of weeks later. Abby is glowing, Sharpy refuses to leave her side, and everyone’s smiling so much their cheeks all hurt. Jon holds the kid, and she’s so tiny, so fragile, he worries he’s going to crush her. But then Kaner slides up behind him, wraps his arms around Jon until his hold on the kid shifts, and he lets out the breath he was holding. Kaner’s hands are folded over Jon’s, his chin hooked over Jon’s shoulder as he coos at the baby and eggs Jon on to do the same. Someone comes by to take the baby away, move on to the next round of gawkers, but Kaner leaves one arm wrapped around Jon, leads him to the other end of the room where Maddy and Mia are playing.

Later, having left Sharpy and his wife to wrangle their family into bed, Kaner is straddling him in their bed, teasing Jon with half-there touches and bedroom eyes. "So," he says conversationally, pressing a kiss to Jon’s chest, just under his nippple. "Kids."

Jon hums distractedly, canting his hips, urging Kaner to get with the program. But Kaner tugs at a piece of his hair, saying "Hey, Jonny. Jonny."

"What?" he snaps, impatiently, opening his eyes to glare at Patrick. His dick is still hard and untouched between them.

"Kids," Kaner repeats, and then pokes Jon in the chest.

"Yes, children, Patrick. What?"

Patrick frowns, and it’s not a good frown. It’s an unsure one, almost hurt, and Jon’s demeanor does a 180 so fast he’s nearly dizzy with it. He pulls Patrick in by the back of his neck, leans up to kiss him, slow and gentle. He was going to say something, but they both get waylaid when their dicks brush against each other, and then they’re both pushing frantically into their clasped hands, too far gone to care about how far they get. Kaner collapses on top of him, the asshole, until Jon shoves him to the side and Kaner curls up, content.

"Hey", Jon says, a while later, jostling Patrick by the shoulders.

"Mm?"

"So, kids?" It’s a question, and he can hear the way Patrick draws in a quick breath.

"I—yeah."

Jon strokes Patrick’s hair, stares at the ceiling, and thinks, yeah, he could do kids. "Okay, so. Kids." It’s not a question this time, and Patrick’s grin is so bright, Jon swears it makes the room lighter.

 

FEBRUARY

 

"Ovulation day!" Patrick yells across the locker room when they get to practice, and Jon looks up and says back "Ovulation day?"

"Yeah," Patrick says, rushing up to him and pushing him against the wall to kiss him stupid. Some of the guys start catcalling, tell them to get a room, and Sharpy shakes his head and asks them, again, how they got to be an old married couple when they're still technically in their damn honeymoon phase. 

"Shut up, shut up, shut up," Patrick chants, pressing a couple of kisses to Jon’s jaw before going back to his own damn locker to get ready for practice.

It’s their second ovulation day—the first one hadn’t taken—but the doctor and Annie, their surrogate, both seem hopeful about this one.

Somehow, someone convinced Jon that having babies with Kaner was a good idea. So now they’re here. And in nine months there’s gonna be a kid. His and Kaner’s kid. Or one of theirs, anyway, combined with Annie’s (deemed acceptable) genetic pool.

Jon knows Kaner’s hoping the kid is his, because otherwise he/she/they will inherit his "weird canadian hockey robot gene" but to be honest, Jon’s kind of hoping it’s Kaner’s kid, too. Just because he wants to see those blonde curls on a tiny little kid. He wants the kid to have Kaner’s energy, and his passion for life, and get all the things from Patrick that Jon loves most about him. He doesn’t tell Pat any of this. Partly because he’d never live it down, and partly because it’s a bit too sappy, even for them, in all their married bliss.

But it’s ovulation day, and they’re doing this for real, and Jon doesn’t care whose kid they get because he knows it won’t matter. In the end, it’ll be theirs. Their kid. Their family.

Jon’s heart is fit to burst, at this rate, and he doesn’t even mind.

 

JULY (again)

 

"Are you sure it’s in there?" Kaner asks, poking indelicately at Annie’s stomach and squinting.

"Kaner," Jon hisses, slapping at his hand.

"What! It’s my baby, Jonny, I gotta make sure Annie’s mutant body didn’t, like, absorb its powers or something."

"Right, because a fetus has so much power for me to sap." Annie rolls her eyes. Jon wasn’t sure about her at first—wasn’t sure about any of this, really—but she’s grown on him. She doesn’t put up with Kaner’s shit, for one. She’s a good person. She doesn’t even bitch at Jon’s crazy micro-managing. He knows he’s a control freak—how can he not, when Kaner tells him on a daily basis?—but he also doesn’t know how to stop. Not when it’s his kid she’s carrying. With just a few layers of skin and some goopy stuff between his kid and the rest of the world.

Kaner’s a lot more easy about the whole pregnancy thing. He was old enough to remember his younger sisters’ pregnancies. Had babies in the family after that. Jon can’t remember his mom's pregnancy with David at all. Annie’s the first pregnant person he’s ever had a lot of contact with. He wants to put her inside a giant bubble. He’s pretty sure the only reason he hasn’t is because Patrick keeps telling him how stupid he is and kissing him until he forgets about all his plans.

It’s effective and really fucking annoying.

"I’m just saying," Patrick mumbles, side-eyeing Annie’s stomach—she’s barely showing, at 20 weeks, despite how much she talks about her weight gain—before letting it go.

"We’ve got the ultrasounds taped to the fridge, Pat." He shares a look with Annie, quietly exasperated. She sips at her smoothie—some weird combination of fruits Jon didn’t question, just bought for her instantly.

"Those do not show a baby. For all we know, that’s some sort of alien space monster thing that’ll claw its way to world domination, Twilight-style."

Annie pales, and she just got over the worst of the morning sickness, and Jon says "Jesus fucking christ, Kaner" and is ready to hit him again. But then Annie laughs, full-bellied and deep, and snaps her teeth at Patrick like she’s some sort of vampire thing from those books.

Patrick jumps back, wide-eyed and genuinely terrified, and Jon can’t stop laughing at his stupid husband, and their crazy surrogate, and his crazy-stupid life filled with so much overwhelming fondness, sometimes he wonders if he’s the crazy one. He thinks he’d be okay with that, so long as he got to keep this. Keep Patrick, and their baby. Keep their family.

 

AUGUST

 

"We are not naming our child Renesmee."

"But—"

"No."

"Jonny, we—"

"No."

"It's a good na—"

Finally, Annie chimes in, ever the voice of reason: "It's a shit name, Patrick, give it up."

Kaner pouts at them both, and Jon's fairly sure he wasn't seriously considering naming their daughter after a stupid vampire baby from some stupid tween sensation. But it's Kaner.

Kaner crosses his arms and leans back in his seat and says petulantly "Well we're not naming her Margaux." He pronounces it "mar-gawks" because he's an uncultured little shit. Jon furrows his brow.

"It's a nice name." Better than Reneswhat, anyway.

"It's not even in English!" Kaner protests.

Annie snorts. Jon resists the urge to roll his eyes and says instead "It's a name, Kaner, it doesn't have a language."

"Fine, then you get to be the one to explain to our crying daughter why everyone at school says it wrong."

Jon sighs. Kaner is just being difficult because he settled on Renesmee immediately and refuses to accept anything else until he's heard irrefutable proof that they are not naming their daughter after a vampire. Apparently, Jon saying "no" a hundred times isn't proof enough. It wouldn't be, for Kaner. At least he gave up on "Stanley" once they found out it was a girl. For a moment Jon was worried they'd go down in history as those gay hockey players that named their firstborn after a hunk of metal. (Kaner had gasped, mock-offended, and said 'a hunk of metal, Jonny, are you fucking kidding me?')

"No, but see, it wouldn't just be naming her after a book character because—" and Kaner launches into another round of bullshit as to why Jonny is wrong and Kaner is right, and also Jonny is "dumb and Canadian and doesn't know how to appreciate good literature, gawd". (Jon's pretty sure Twilight doesn't count as literature, but he's learned to choose his battles, when it comes to Kaner.)

They aren't going to reach an agreement anytime soon—Jon never expected to—but when it comes down to the line, he knows Kaner's got his back. That's how it is in hockey, how it's been in their lives, and Kaner may seem wild and unpredictable and completely inept, but he gets shit done when it matters, and that's what's always mattered to Jonny. Still does.

They've got this.

 

SEPTEMBER

 

It's—

They were cupping water with their hands. All along. It was just water, slipping through the cracks between their fingers, and no matter how tightly they held it—how careful, how focused, how infallible—it just. Slipped.

Kaner's grief is loud. Raw. Full. He lashes out in short bursts of energy, like the crack of a whip, and each time he has to try harder to rein himself back in. Jon recognizes this pattern. Kaner self-destructs, falls and falls and falls until he picks himself up and gets it together. But this is worse. Because he keeps falling. Keeps destructing. And just like the water cupped in his hands, just like their daughter, Jon loses him.

Jon's grief is quiet. Calm. Empty. While Kaner yells and wrecks and drinks and hurts, Jon disappears. He fades, until he feels like a shadow of himself. An illusion. A dream. He spends his time bargaining with the air for reason.

Kaner doesn't understand it. Jon doesn't expect him to. He calls Jon callous. Asks if he ever cared at all.

Jon doesn't dispute him because he's not sure, himself. He's hollowed out. Cavernous. Suddenly, there's all this room inside of him, dark and wide and cold and void. He never knew he could carve out that much room within himself, for just one thing. One precious, tiny thing. But he had. He'd found room, made a home for her inside himself, and now he's staring at the wreckage wondering if it's possible to drown from an abundance of nothing.

But Kaner's grief is so full, so big, that it pushes out and pushes out and fills everything with ash, until Jon with his small, quiet grief can't fit. So he leaves. He leaves before he suffocates in Kaner's expanding grief. He finds that hole inside of him and he sinks into it, thinking: maybe. Maybe, if he lives inside of it for long enough, he'll feel whole again. He becomes smaller and smaller, trying to fit his entire being inside that one empty place, trying to feel whole.

And Kaner grows. He grows so much and so fast that Jon wonders if he even remembers that there used to be a part of him, somewhere, that was making room for someone else. He wonders if Kaner even remembers anything beyond himself and his grief, it's so big. If there's room enough for a grave. For her grave.

 

OCTOBER

 

They lose their first game of the regular season, and it hurts more than it ever should. Kaner stomps around the place when they get home while Jon sits quietly on the couch, pretending to watch the TV. The volume's turned so low he can hardly make out the words.

Kaner makes excessive, unnecessary noise wherever he goes, slamming every door he touches, stomping his feet and swearing at random and acting like a child.

Then Kaner slams the fridge door so hard it rattles everything inside, and Jon snaps "Would you _stop?_ "

"Make me!" Kaner says petulantly, like a child, and slams a cabinet door just out of spite. Jon stands up and steamrolls into the kitchen, nothing but fury written into his features, venom laced in his voice.

"It's _one loss,_ stop throwing a fucking temper tantrum like a toddler and grow up, for once!"

Kaner shoots him a glare over the counter and grips his hand around a mug. "Oh, real nice, Jonny."

"It's not my job to be nice!" Jon shoots back, "It's my job to make sure you don't fuck up your career because of one stupid game!"

Kaner's hand grips the mug so tight it looks like he's about to shatter it, and he releases it suddenly, mug clinking a little against the counter before it settles, unharmed. He stares daggers into Jon. "I'm not your _job._ You can't tell me what to do, Captain."

Kaner stares back at him with a look of sheer defiance on his face as he swipes the mug off the countertop, sending it to shatter all over the floor, and Jon is just...done.

"Fine," he says as he turns sharply and walks out of the kitchen. He grabs some shit—just essentials, everything else is co-owned by both of them anyway and Jon doesn't want it—and walks out. Patrick doesn't even spare him a backwards glance.

Jon can tell when he's not wanted. Honestly, he's just surprised it took them this long.

 

NOVEMBER

 

"How you holding up, Toes?" Sharpy bumps their shoulders companionably. Jon shrugs.

"I'm fine." They're hollow words.

Sharpy looks at him with wide, sad eyes. Most of the team does, now. He hasn't changed, from what he can tell. He's the same he's always been, at least when it comes to hockey. He's doing what he's supposed to. But the guys won't stop looking at him like that, and they won't stop looking at Kaner like that. They won't stop.

"You know you can always talk to me." Sharpy doesn't stop watching Jon's face. Like he's expecting to see something. What he's expecting, Jon doesn't know. He's the same.

"I know." He won't.

Sharpy pats his shoulder a couple of times before leaving him be, and Jon looks back to his gear in confusion, trying to remember what he was doing.

He doesn't understand grief. It's unsteady, and it changes, and it keeps coming and going and coming and going forever. It doesn't fit into his schedule, and he's not sure how that's supposed to work when the rest of his life adheres so perfectly to routine. It's the only way he knows how to function, and the fact that he can't schedule it just makes him angry.

Kaner isn't helping. His grief is visible, and active, and it's so different from Jon's that sometimes he wonders if he's doing it right.

When he calls his mom—the few times he does, before the crying gets to be too much—she tells him there's no wrong way to grieve. He's not sure about that. He thinks he might be doing it wrong, anyway. So he tries to shut it down. To stop. Because he can't grieve wrong if he isn't doing it at all, and really, it seems like the only logical course of action.

Kaner would probably disapprove, but Kaner will hardly look at him right now, so he doesn't have a problem with that.

 

DECEMBER

 

Jon goes down sometime during the third and he doesn't get up. Doesn't even remember blacking out. He wakes up in a fugue awhile later, somewhere in the back of the UC, with about five doctors hovering over him. He tries swatting at them and getting away, but they don't seem to like that much, and then he can't really move his arms anymore. He blacks out again, mostly because he can't think of anything else to do.

The next time he wakes, he stays that way, and after a few minutes they even let him sit up. He tells the doctors and trainers he's fine about twelve times, and they still don't believe him. They put him through the concussion ringer but he passes with flying colors—and he didn't even have to fake it.

He's glad. He doesn't know if he could handle another concussion like the last, this early in the season. He doesn't know if he could handle another concussion at all. The doctors still tell him to watch out, to take it easy, and they've got him benched for the rest of this game—if it's even still happening—but beyond that it's a big "we'll see" so he's not worried.

The game's already over, when he gets out of there, and apparently they lost. Jon vows to give the guys a pep talk tomorrow, but for tonight, he's on strict orders to go home and get some rest. They cleared him for driving—though they told him to go slow, and Q didn't look particularly happy about it anyway. But he makes it home under his own steam, no mishaps.

He's fine. No concussion symptoms, and yeah, they lost, but apparently it went to shootout and he's gotta give it to the guys for fighting hard. It's good. He'll take tonight to rest, make himself some food and sleep so he can be ready to go for the next game.

And then he's reaching up into the cabinet to get himself a plate, and—

Jon is not a violent person. He doesn't act out. Not ever. Even when he yells it's more about motivation then anger. Play better. Live better. Be better. Jon's life is simple, and it's pure, and he knows how to manage it. He knows how to deal with anything. That's part of his job, as Captain.

But this? He's been trying to deal with this the same way he dealt with everything else, and it's not working. There is no way to make this better. There's nothing. His daughter—his _daughter—_

The first plate hits the edge of the counter and shatters, pieces flying out around him, and it's so different and it feels so good, to just, break. He throws another plate, then another, and then he reaches up into the cabinet and swipes every last dish out of it, onto the counter and the floor, everything shattering and echoing off the ceiling, the walls. He lets the sound fill him, throws everything that will break, fly apart, and his life has always been so carefully structured and now there's nothing. No rhyme or reason, just pain, everywhere, all the time, because his daughter never—

She never.

He runs out of things to break and he runs out of steam, collapsing into a pile of broken glass and ceramics, holding his head in his hands, waiting. Waiting for something to make sense, because nothing does right now. Nothing about this makes sense. And it really needs to, because Jon can't keep doing this.

So he waits.

 

It's Sharpy who finds him, when he doesn't show up for practice. Jon hasn't moved. Hasn't done much of anything, because it still hurts. It still hurts and he still doesn't know why, so he hasn't moved.

But then Sharpy is there, and he pulls Jon from the wreckage, shoves him into a car and brings him home to Abby. She makes him soup. They don't speak. He eats and he cleans up and he passes out in their guest bedroom.

He's profoundly embarrassed, when he bothers to wake up, but Sharpy waves him off and doesn't even try to chirp him. He spends the day with the Sharps, gets asked about a thousand times if he wants to talk about it, which he doesn't, and then promises he'll be good for the game tomorrow.

It isn't until he's back at his own place that he realizes he hadn't seen or heard Maddie even once, and that that's probably not a coincidence. He doesn't know whether to cry or just be stupidly grateful, but he figures he's done enough of the first already.

He's a hockey player. He'll pick himself up and keep going and play some damn good hockey, and everything else will work itself out. Like it always has before. He's gotta believe that. Because hockey is about the only thing he's got right now, and that. That needs to be enough.

 

JANUARY

 

Him and Kaner exist on opposite planes of existence, and that means there are a lot of things they don't do. They don't speak. They don't play together. They don't live together. They don't even look at each other.

And they don't touch.

So that's why it's a little confusing, when Kaner pounds on his hotel room door that night, after a vicious loss to the Preds. Jon throws open the door and starts asking what the hell Kaner thinks he's doing, he's gonna wake up the whole damn hotel, but then Kaner is shouting over him. "What the fuck even was that game, Jonny?!"

He shoves past Jon, steamrolling into the room, and Jon frowns and shuts the hotel room door, because _what the fuck._

"It's not our first shutout, we need—"

Kaner spins to face him, his hands clenched into fists at his side. "We need a better damn Captain!"

_"What the hell?"_

"'Do better next time, guys?'" Kaner mimics and rolls his eyes. "What the fuck kind of speech is that? If you're just gonna lie down like a damn doormat then you shouldn't have the C."

Jon gapes at him, standing stationary in the middle of the hotel room, trying to process where the fuck this even came from. How long has Kaner felt like this? And what the hell, so Jon's a little fucked up lately, it's not like Kaner is this shining beacon of hockey perfection, what the _fuck._

"Maybe you shouldn't even be playing hockey," Kaner continues, like he doesn't even care what Jon thinks about this, and that's it.

"Oh, fuck you, like you're one to talk." Jon takes a step forward, and Kaner flinches back, like he's scared. Good. "Hockey is _all I have_. Unless I start drowning myself in shitty beer pretending I'm a frat boy."

"Madison was years ago!" Kaner's shoulders hunch up, and his chin tilts, like a challenge.

Jon huffs out a laugh. "Right, because you've grown so much."

Kaner unclenches his fists and that's all the warning Jon gets before 180 pounds slams into him. He's checked back against the wall, and normally Kaner wouldn't be able to pin him but he was caught off guard. Jon's bracing for a hit, but there's a breath and then a biting kiss, and maybe this hurts more.

It feels like the air is ripped from Jon's chest, and he whines before kissing back.

Nothing about this is gentle. Patrick's arm is digging into his collarbone, and Jon is pulling sharply at Patrick's hair, and there's more biting than kissing, but somehow it's what Jon wants right now.

Patrick's nails dig crescents into his shoulder, because he can't be bothered to cut them ever, never has, and—

Jon shifts his hand to the back of Patrick's neck, presses his fingertips in so hard there'll be bruises and Patrick jerks back.

But it's still Patrick who pushes it. Presses his thigh between Jon's, too forceful to be anything but painful, and they're both impossibly hard. Patrick shoves his hand into Jon's boxers, then. Grips him dry and sure and rough and Jon breathes hard and feels his entire body tense up. Patrick moves his lips to the tender skin where Jon's neck meets his shoulder and he bites down. Jon hits his head against the wall. "Fuck." Fucking Kaner and his fucking oral fixation. Jon's going to have bite marks all over his neck, marks he can't even write off as hockey.

Jon doesn't wait any longer before going for Patrick's cock. He tries for fast and dry, but when he uses his nails—just barely—Patrick jumps and he breathes out "Asshole" before twisting his hand around Jon's cock, not nearly slick enough.

They hover just over the edge of painful, fast and up against the wall, like they're strangers, and Jon feels like he's cheating. This isn't the Patrick he married. This isn't even Patrick at all. But it's not Jon either, and it's not the kind of sex a married couple has, bruising and painful where every move is just another burst of hatred.

He doesn't care. Couldn't handle anything else right now. It's the first time anyone's touched him like this since he and Patrick were okay, and he needs it to hurt.

He doesn't know if this is the first time anyone's touched Patrick since August. And that—the thought that they're so broken, so fucked up that they're not even really married anymore, that this _ruined_ them—it makes Jon so fucking angry. Because what right does Patrick have to be okay right now? How the fuck is it he can keep playing and drinking and fucking like it never even mattered? Jon is lonely and he's sad, all the fucking time, and Patrick just—it's like he's in a perpetual state of Madison. Like fuck he's grown up since then. He's handling this like a pissy little frat boy and Jon has trouble finding it in himself to get out of bed in the morning. Fuck him.  It's not fucking fair.

Jon comes, scrapes his nails so hard down Patrick's back that he hears a cry and Patrick follows right after, and they both lean heavily against the wall and breathe, sticky and banged up and hurt. Jon's lip is bleeding. There are bright red, angry marks on the back of Patrick's neck. They don't move, just breathe, until Patrick gathers himself enough to snort and says "You're a shit lay, too."

Jon's anger snaps instantly, and he shoves Patrick off of him. "You're a shitty husband."

"At least I'm fucking human," Patrick shoots back, giving Jon a condescending look before heading for the door.

"You would've been a shit father, too!" Jon shouts after him. The door slams so hard it shakes the walls.

Jon punches a hole through the drywall.

 

MARCH

 

Sharpy throws himself onto the bench next to Jon. He looks like he wants to talk. Jon tries to ignore him. They may be up by three right now, and it may be the Oilers, but Jon still needs to watch the game. He's the Captain, he's gotta know what happened during every single shift so he can tell his players what they need to work on and what they did well with.

Sharpy doesn't seem to care.

"Toes."

Jon grunts non-committally.

"You've been avoiding me."

Jon has not been avoiding him. They're hockey players, they're getting pretty late in the season. He's busy. Simple as that.

"I'm just saying—" Sharpy starts, but then they go out for a shift change, and when they're on the ice there's no time to talk. Still, as soon as they're both back over the boards, Sharpy needles his way over to Jon's side and starts up again.

"Kaner's been getting a lot of penalties, lately," Sharpy goes on, like he doesn't even care if Jon is listening. Jon grits his teeth. "Been partying a lot lately, too."

"So?" Jon snaps. "I'm not his damn babysitter." _Not his damn husband, either, apparently,_ he wants to say, but keeps his jaw snapped shut. If Kaner wants to drink and fuck his way through Chicago, why should Jon stop him? On paper is about the only way they're married anymore, so at this point it's just semantics. Kaner can fuck up his way to getting traded, for all Jon cares.

"Toews," Sharpy says, low and serious, and Jon doesn't want his pity. He welcomes the tap when it comes, growls "Drop it" before he flies out onto the ice, skating until he can't feel anything else. Skates until he can't feel his hands on his stick, until he can't feel the ice beneath him, until he can't remember Kaner whispering, late one night, "I hope it's a girl", until he can't remember what tore them apart in the first place, until there's nothing but the puck and the net, and he's nothing more than a means to an end.

 

MAY

 

There is something gloriously horrific about the aftermath of getting knocked out of the playoffs. It's a repeat of 2012, only this time when Kaner winds up plastered all over Deadspin, he doesn't hang his head in shame and flee to Buffalo. It's like he just doesn't stop, jumps from bar to bar, city to city, girl to girl, drink to drink. Jon stops bothering to track it, starts ignoring calls from the other guys on the team, from friends, from his parents, even from Sidney Crosby, who wants to know if Jon is okay, even though they've hardly spoken in months.

He skips going home to Winnipeg this year. Can't bear to have his mother watch him with sad eyes, saying "Je suis désolée, mon chéri." He ignores Sharpy's invites to see Abby and the girls. Can't imagine he's much fun to be around, right now. He turns the summer into a retreat, running from his responsibilities like he never has. Taking a page out of Kaner's book, maybe.

Jon is silent in all the ways that Kaner is loud. He forces things back, down, away. He holds on to all he has left with two white-knuckled hands, nearly shakes apart in the living room, bedroom, laundry room. He buries himself under layers and layers of apathy, and he pours himself into hockey in a way he's never done before. He trains harder, spends his free time looking at plays, grinds his jaw late at night while he tries to work out why something isn't working, how to change up the lines to get the best out of everyone, how to let Corey take a load off sometimes when he's their only goalie.

Sometimes, there's an article. A stray newspaper or link that slips through the cracks in the walls he's holed up inside of. Kaner gets into a barfight in Philly, gets two or three drunk and disorderlies on the West Coast, and almost winds up with assault charges in Edmonton. In _Canada._ It makes the trade rumors following Madison look like child's play.

Jon takes his phone off Do Not Disturb, for that week, waiting on a call from someone telling him Kaner's been traded. He thinks that's it, when his phone finally rings, and he picks up without thinking about it, barely mumbling out a 'hi', waiting for the name of a city. He's numb.

It's not about Kaner. It's not even about hockey, it's David, seeming about as stunned that Jon picked up as Jon is that his brother called in the first place. Things haven't been good, between them. Not since David had a kid, and Jon...didn't. It's stupid, holding his happiness against him, but it's easy. Jon doesn't have a lot of room for any more difficult things in his life. He took the easy route, with David, and he would again.

David still hasn't said anything. Jon refocuses his eyes on the walls of the guest bedroom and can't remember what he was doing in here.

"How's–" Jon stops, clears his throat. "How's Evan?"

David takes a moment. "Good. Teething, but good. How are you?"

"Fine," he responds, automatic. David sighs, and it sounds like something breaks.

"Jon." Jon flounders. The phone burns his hand, it seems so hot, and he nearly drops it. Throws it away from him just because he can't, not now, not after he's worked so hard to keep this from happening. He can hear the words tumbling around in David's head, and he wants to cover his hands over the receiver, keep them from coming down the phone line, from ever getting to him because he can't do this. Not now. Jon isn't ready. "This needs to stop."

Jon takes a step forward, then another one back, turns, looking around the empty guest bedroom like he'll find an out there. The blank white walls don't give him any answers, don't stop anything from happening. There's nothing here for him.

"Talk to someone. Please. Mom is—You gotta know, she's worried about you. And Dad is beside himself, he won't even—"

"David—"

"No, Jon. I know you—I know we haven't been close," a wave of guilt crashes through Jon, but David keeps talking, like he's not sure Jon's even gonna hear him out, "and you're in a different world than me, what with the NHL, but—"

"David that's not—"

"You're still my brother. Or you used to be, anyway, because I don't know who it is you're pretending to be now." Jon frowns, so deep he can feel it like a pressure between his eyes. "But it's not right. You need to talk to someone."

"A—"

David cuts him off again. "I don't mean a professional. I'm sure it wouldn't hurt, but I get that things are different for you," What does that mean? When the hell had David and him become so...different? They'd grown up both wanting hockey, both giving it everything they had, and– Well, maybe Jon had never been able to see past his own desire, enough to see that him and David had always been different, wanted different things more than others.

Maybe that's why David has a kid and he doesn't. Maybe he didn't want it enough. Maybe he couldn't have both, couldn't want hockey and a family without one of them breaking under the pressure. The thing is...

He's not so sure he would've been okay if he'd lost hockey, either. He doesn't know. Will never know.

"Just. Talk to someone. Talk to Sharpy, or to Q, or to one of the guys on the team. Talk to Mom. Talk to Patrick."

Jon's chest seizes up, just at the mention of his name. Patrick is a sharp, cold ache in Jon, a jagged scar carved into his ribcage that catches in all the wrong places. Everything about Patrick hurts.

"I can't," he breathes out, voice raw and hollow. He snaps his jaw shut. David's not—he shouldn't be hearing this from Jon. Jon shouldn't be feeling this. That's what this summer had been about. Not feeling things anymore.

"You love each other," David says, and it's too soft. It's too gentle. They're brothers, they're not like Patrick and his sisters, they don't do stuff like this. They don't share. He knows it should say something, that it's gotten bad enough for them to get to this point, but he– He's not ready. Not yet. It's too soon. He has to fix hockey, first. If he fixes hockey then he can stop worrying about hockey, and then he can do the other things. Just. One step at a time. And hockey first. Hockey before everything else, because hockey is what he still has. What he still knows. Hockey is his salvage.

"Used to." His voice cracks.

"Jon–"

"Give Maria and Evan my best," Jon says quickly, and hangs up to David's protests. He throws his phone across the room and it slides somewhere underneath a piece of furniture. Jon sinks down onto the guest bed and stares at the floor.

It doesn't give him any more answers than the walls.

 

AUGUST

 

"What." Jon had been going through the motions, with the media, had hardly been paying attention when suddenly the most recent question—from a younger guy who's either too naive or too callous to refrain from asking this kind of shit—blindsides him.

Apparently, the journalist thought it was a question rather that an outright statement of shock, and he repeats it. "There was some talk awhile back about the possibility of you and Kane having kids. Do you have anything new to say on that matter?"

Jon can see some of the seasoned reporters wince, either because they know by now to avoid these kinds of questions, or someone let them in on the situation. He just gapes for a moment, because how the hell is he supposed to answer that?

"No," he gets out, his mind chanting for a new question, something about hockey, something he can answer. He can't do anything but hockey right now, can't think about anything outside of hockey, because when he does that he stops remembering how to breathe. Hockey. Hockey is safe.

"Some pictures appeared on Deadspin recently that have raised questions regarding the status of your relationship with Kane—do you have anything to comment?"

Hell, now they're bringing up the Deadspin photos? The grainy ones that show Kane on any number of nights, with any number of drinks in his system, and with any number of girls hanging off his shoulders. _Those_ photos. The ones Jon has been patently ignoring because he's convinced himself that what—or who—Patrick does in his free time is none of his business. They aren't like that anymore. Married. In love. Friendly. Whatever.

They aren't anything.

But that's none of the media's business, and the sheer fact that they're asking it now. Jon stares fixedly forward, trying to stop his mind from spinning. How is he supposed to answer any of this? Why is he even here? It's not—this isn't about hockey anymore. It was supposed to be about hockey. Everything was supposed to be about hockey, he thought everyone knew that, thought everyone realized that he wouldn't—couldn't—talk about anything else. At all. Why are they asking him this? Why aren't they asking him about hockey?

What the hell is happening?

"If you're taking Deadspin's word on anything, perhaps you should reconsider your line of work." Someone—an agent, a manager, PR, Jon doesn't know—cuts in, getting a few strained laughs and then physically dragging Jon away from the mic, out of the room, into a hallway that's too bright and filled with the buzzing sounds of electricity. He only manages a couple of steps before he slumps down against the wall, scraping against the chilled cement, staring blankly at the floor in front of his feet.

He vaguely recognizes someone trying to talk to him, but he waves a hand half-heartedly and says "Fine. I just need a moment."

The voice says "I don't get paid for this shit, you're on your own," before there are fading footsteps and he's alone, staring at barren, grey concrete and counting the moments between his breaths, to make sure he doesn't forget. It's been hard to breathe, lately, all the time. Sometimes he wonders if he could just forget about it altogether, stop breathing long enough to pass out, maybe for good. Maybe then things would make sense.

Maybe then he could get his head screwed on straight enough to get back to playing hockey, without all this other shit—feelings, problems, pain, whatever all of this is—getting in the way. The way things should be. With a Jon who has hockey to the full extent of the word. A Jon who has hockey and nothing else.

God gave Jon hockey so that he wouldn't need anything else. Shouldn't need anything else.

It was time to get back to that. It was all he had.

 

SEPTEMBER

 

They're at practice. They're _on the fucking ice,_ when it all finally breaks, and Jon doesn't know whether that's ironic or clandestine, that everything about them seems to circle back to hockey, one way or another.

They're playing against each other, more running drills than anything, and Q calls Jon out for being soft on the rookies and Jon knows when he's not doing enough to hold the C, so he steps up his game, starts being a little more vocal.

It's his duty, as Captain, to tell Kaner that he's gotta work on his speed, needs to be able to get across the ice faster than that if he wants to see the puck on his tape, and Jon _knows_ he can do better. Knows Kaner, knows how he plays hockey, and Jon knows he can be better.

Kaner used to take these things at face value. No matter how fucked up things got, off the ice, hockey was always sacred. Hockey mattered too much to let their personal shit affect them.

But then, Kaner's spraying ice as he turns, sliding up to Jon, face bright red and screaming about Jon taking his own damn advice sometime. Jon doesn't even know how to react, just yells back that he's right, but Kaner isn't _listening,_ just keeps raging and stalling practice and Jon finally just snaps, shouts back "What's your damage?"

"You left!" Kaner shouts, shoving at Jon's shoulders with as much force he can gather, skates sliding back on the ice at the impact. It's—it feels like it's out of nowhere, but at the same time he's not surprised. It's—

It's been a year, is the thing. A year ago today, they—

And it's only fitting, that it all falls apart again. That today, of all days, turns out to be the one that finally ends this.

"You didn't want me anymore," Jon shoots back. He can feel the heat collecting in his head, brimming beneath his skin, something between anger and terror—the same kind of feeling when one of your team gets checked hard and isn't quick to get up.

The team starts to notice, stops in the middle of the drill, and a few of them try to interject but they're past that. This is inevitable.

"No," Kaner agrees, or argues, Jon can't even tell anymore— "I needed you."

Jon scoffs, digs his skates into the ice beneath him, grinding them until there are two deep scars in the surface. "Why, so you could drink yourself to death?"

"Maybe, yeah!"

Jon bites his tongue and sets his jaw. He can taste blood. The UC is dead silent, and their words echo in the cavernous, thin air, making every word sound final.

"Maybe I needed someone to stop me," Kaner says, pressing his stick with one hand into the ice, until it's bending under the pressure.

"I'm not your damn babysitter, Kaner!"

"No!" Kaner whips off his gloves, throws them to the side along with his stick, clattering across the ice. His stance is wide and set and riveted with tension. "You're supposed to be my husband," Kaner bites out, "and fuck all if I know what that means anymore, because apparently it doesn't count for pulling me back from the ledge."

"I wouldn't have!" Jon shouts, and his clenched fists start to shake. "I would've jumped off with you."

"So?" Kaner's voice starts to shake apart. He looks impossibly small, compared to just moments ago, his shoulders shrinking in on himself, his head tilted downward. "Would've been better than doing it alone."

"Pat—"

"I can't anymore, Jonny, I—" he stops, swallows. "I—" Patrick glances around, panicked, shaking with half-there sobs, enough that anyone else would be flat on their back on the ice by now. "Jonny, she just—" Jon's breath catches painfully in his throat, "she—" Patrick hiccups, "our d-daughter—"

And Jon can't anymore, either. This is it, this is all he can take. It's been a year and it's finally breaking, like water spilling over the brim as the surface tension gives out. Jon skates forward, can't quite believe he's together enough to even remember how to skate, and gets his arms around Patrick just as he breaks down. They just fall into each other, layers of gear still between them, but it's closer than they've been in a long time, and Jon can _hear_ Patrick's sobs, can feel his pulse beat erratically in his neck, where Jon's face is pressed, and it all just gives.

They wind up collapsed on the ice, and expressions of their grief mirror them both in the past year, Patrick's loud and intruding and impossibly big, Jon's silent and small and wrapped up safely inside Patrick's. And maybe—maybe they had always fit together like this, even when Jon felt like there was no room for him, maybe he just hadn't bothered to look, to realize that somewhere inside all of Patrick's grief was this space carved out, just enough for Jon. That maybe, Patrick had realized Jon needed that wall, that protection, to hide behind so he had some room to breathe. All along, Patrick had been grieving for the both of them, grieving openly so that Jon didn't have to, so that he could process everything without the world ripping it from him before he was ready, and god.

God, they've been so _stupid._ Jon's missed Patrick, in a tangible and physical way, but there'd been no more room in him for any more loss, and—

They tore their relationship apart when they lost her, decimated it because they needed something to blame, and once they'd destroyed that they'd moved onto themselves. And Jon was just so tired. Bone-deep and achingly tired, trying to pretend that losing his family piece by piece wasn't killing him.

They'd been standing on the same island of ice, hacking at the core of it hoping it would finally break apart, drowning them, and now they're here. Right in the center as the ice finally gives out beneath them.

Where they should've been all along.

 

NOVEMBER

 

Jon comes to surrounded by soft, bright warmth, and he blinks his eyes open only to snap them shut again at the light blaring in through the window. He rolls over with a soft groan, curling into the warmth he finds on the opposite side of him, and nearly slips back into sleep.

Something is different, though. He opens his eyes again, Patrick sprawled out and sleeping right next to him, basking in the morning light, and Jon thinks _Ah._

Everything feels peculiarly soft, and warm, and he knows they've got nowhere to be—not today. He's rarely ever up before Patrick, and Jon is nothing if not an opportunist. He gently tugs the sheets down so he can take in Pat's skin, dappled with sunlight, and starts peppering kisses along any stretch of skin he can reach. It's been awhile, since they've done this. A long, long while. This is the first morning Jon can remember waking up with Patrick in his bed in...well.

So it feels new, to be doing this. Maybe a bit forbidden. Because he's not sure where they stand. Things had been better, after September, but they're still working on their marriage. Jon's therapist had suggested not to phrase it like that—like work—but when he'd told Kaner as much, it had taken nearly five minutes for Kaner to stop laughing, and when he finally did, he'd patted Jon's cheek condescendingly and said "I don't wanna know the kind of marriage we'd have if you stopped thinking about everything you do as 'work'."

So they're getting back to...somewhere. They're never gonna get back to where they were, not with everything that's happened, but Jon never really understood the point in trying to move backwards in anything. Like there was some sort of golden age you had to recapture. You could just move forward instead and make a new golden age.

But sex hadn't been a part of any of that. Not yet, anyway. He knew they'd always been working up to it, but it's been a damn long while. And Kaner is spread out before him, all warm, glowing skin and sleepy contentment, and for a second Jon can almost see the Patrick he knew before they married. Back when they were young and scared and stupid in love. He's missed that Patrick right alongside all the other sides of Patrick he thought he'd lost, and now he's got his Patrick back, and he wants to say thank you.

Patrick's dead weight, offering no help as Jon slides down to tug his boxers off. He runs his palms up and down Patrick's thighs, brushes his lips against his hip as goosebumps chase his breath. He runs his nails lightly up and down Patrick's side, dipping into the crease where his hips meet his thighs. He blows small puffs of air over Patrick's cock, just small, whispering breaths, and he carefully closes one hand around the base, lightly, and strokes Patrick into hardness.

He's starting to stir a little in his sleep, his head moving around, thighs twitching where they lay, still laid out in all his glory for Jon to see. He closes his mouth around the tip, just for a moment, looking up to see if Patrick's awake yet. He's not, unless he's faking, which Jon considers unlikely because Patrick is the worst fake-sleeper in the world. He lowers his head back down, closing his mouth down to the base, sucking lightly until he can hear Patrick making small, needy whimpers.

He keeps on, gentle and steady pressure, until Patrick's leaking into his mouth and probably close to waking up. He pulls off, then, presses an apology into Patrick's hip with his lips, and grabs a small bottle of lube from the nightstand that's still there, the same as when Jon left. He doesn't know how much reassurance he should take from that, but either way, Jon figures this was always the way it was going to end up. Them, together.

He coats his fingers carefully, trying not to drip too much onto the bedsheets, and dips his hand back down until he can just press against Patrick's hole, his hand trapped against the sheets. He uses his other hand to push Patrick's legs apart, just a bit, and he teases a bit around the rim before he kisses Patrick's stomach and slides one finger just inside. Patrick makes an encouraging noise, his legs falling a bit further apart, and Jon works the rest of his finger in, and curls it.

Patrick's entire body reacts to that, as Jon eases the pressure and slides up until his face is pressed against Patrick's ear. "Patrick," he whispers, quiet, and his lips brush the shell of Patrick's ear. It's a bit of a stretch on his arm, but he works the finger in deeper, curling it softly a few more times, but not quite enough. He whispers Patrick's name again, kissing his ear, his jaw, his neck. So much warm skin, spread out, everywhere.

But Patrick's still asleep, or if he's not, he's gotten better at pretending and he's also an asshole, because Jon is getting to the point where he wants a little participation.

He manages to work in a second finger, easing slowly, his own breath coming in hard gusts near Patrick's collarbone. He works his fingers, spreading them apart and twisting them to the side, curling deep inside Patrick and brushing his prostate again. Patrick's spine curves in reaction, and Jon says "Patrick" one more time, a bit louder, before burying his face in Patrick's neck and going to town on Patrick's ass.

Patrick wakes with a gasp and a moan, his hips jerking against Jon's fingers and opening for him. Jon stills, just for a moment, just long enough to ask, nervously, with his face still buried against Patrick's neck, "Is this okay?"

 _"Yes,"_ Patrick breathes out, sharpy, jerking his hips again. "Fucking _move._ "

Jon huffs out a laugh and mumbles "cranky" but he starts working his fingers again, scissoring them until Patrick's rocking down onto them and saying "More, please, more."

He pulls out, ignoring Patrick's protests, to coat his fingers in more lube, then presses back in with three, up to the knuckle in one sweet slide. Patrick presses his head back and up into the pillows, grinding himself down on Jon's fingers, and Jon presses his open, gasping mouth against Patrick's chest, pausing while he tries not to come in his boxers right then, untouched.

"Just go already," Patrick gasps out, shifting his hips again, and Jon stops himself from rolling his eyes and presses his fingers into Patrick's prostate in answer. He pulls his fingers out, sitting back on his knees and working himself out of his wet boxers, his cock springing up and leaking. Jon sits back on his ankles, studying Patrick for a moment, until Patrick lifts his head to shoot a glare right at Jon for taking too long.

Patrick opens his mouth, probably to tell Jon to hurry the fuck up, but Jon cuts him off with a stunted, kind of broken "Do I need to use a condom?"

Patrick's face clouds over at once, not with anger but with hurt, and Jon's worried for a second that he's ruined this whole thing, that Patrick's going to get up and go take a cold shower, or something. But Jon keeps staring at Patrick, stony-faced, willing himself not to care either way, trying to make it feel okay.

"No," Patrick responds, chewing on his lip with worry. "I promise, I— You can, if you want to, but I promise you, Jonny, I didn't— I'm not—"

Jon doesn't want to hear him try to stumble through some sort of awkward explanation for what, exactly, happened in all those bars, in the months they weren't speaking. That's a conversation for another time, when they're not both fast losing their erections. And they will be talking about it, and Jon will try to be understanding and forgive Patrick and blame the situation and not the person, but not now.

Right now, he still trusts Patrick. Despite everything. So if Patrick says they don't, then they don't, and that's it. Jon ignores the flickering expressions passing over Patrick's face as he slides his hand around his own cock, coating it in lube, and crawls back toward Patrick. He grabs one of the pillows and they shove it under Patrick's hips, because Jon wants Patrick to see who it is he's sleeping with, wants him to know that it's him and only him from now on. Regardless of what happens to them, how much they fight, he isn't going to lose Patrick again. He wouldn't make it, if he did.

Jon lines himself up, hovering just for a moment, and then pushes in.

He nearly whites out with the pleasure. Patrick is so tight, enough that Jon can't even begin to think about what that means, and he's pressing his ankles hard into Jon's back. Jon gasps as he bottoms out, rests his forehead against Patrick's chest for a moment, just breathing. Then he starts rocking.

Just slow, jerky little motions, barely sliding at all, and Patrick whines high in the back of his throat. Jon opens his eyes, tilts his head just enough to see where he enters Patrick, the slow slide of their bodies together, Patrick's cock straining up against his stomach and leaking.

He lifts his head to look at Patrick, still biting his lip, and Jon shifts his hips a bit, anchoring Patrick with his hands, and does one long, slow glide out and then back in. Patrick whimpers, almost, a sweet sound that it's been way too long since Jon heard. He pushes forward just enough, just until he can press his lips against Patrick's, coaxing the tension out of them, pulling Patrick's bottom lip from between his own teeth until he's sucking lightly on it, tracing the faint indents of Patrick's teeth with his tongue. He rocks his hips in and out, cock pushing in deeper every time, until Patrick starts moaning with every thrust.

He presses his hips up into Jon, in time with the movement of Jon's hips, and Jon can barely keep it together. He can't tell who's making what noise, not so much kissing as breathing against each other's mouths, sharing the same air, the same space, the same sweet slide of pleasure.

"Jonny," Patrick gets out on a gasp, and then starts saying it every time Jon moves, in and out, "Jonny," deeper and deeper, "Jonny," faster, his hips pumping as Patrick rocks up to meet him, "Jonny," their rhythm devolving into frantic movement, pressing in and out and sliding, pushing, pressure everywhere, "Jonny, Jonny, Jonny."

Jon slides his hand between them, still slick with lube, and closes firmly around Patrick's dick. _"Fuck,_ Jonny, _please,_ " Patrick almost sobs, shoving his hips upward as Jon buries himself in Patrick, dropping his head against Patrick's shoulder just as Patrick clenches down around him, coming hard and hot between them, and Jon can barely move his hips enough for a couple more thrusts before he's following right after, pleasure tingling through every nerve in his body.

He doesn't actually manage to hold himself up, just kind of falls on top of Patrick, breathing against his skin. Patrick doesn't really seem to mind. He strokes his fingers through Jon's hair, after a moment, slow, repetitive movements that nearly lull Jon back to sleep.

Neither of them move, and he can feel himself softening inside Patrick, which is weird but sweet, in a really strange way. Still, it's probably not healthy to do that, so he slips out and they both wince, but then he settles himself right back on top of Patrick. Patrick huffs out an "oof" and whines about Jon being heavy, but Jon doesn't move. He quiets after a moment, goes back to stroking Jon's head. Jon tucks his hands under Patrick's shoulderblades and rests his head on the side on top of Patrick's chest. He can hear Patrick breathing, feel the surge of his heartbeat and the occasional noise from his stomach. He doesn't plan on moving anytime soon.

This is good. They're good. Or stable, at least, which Jon is trying to accept for now instead of trying to push them toward perfection. Also his therapist's advice, which he's starting to think isn't catered to people like him, but whatever. Linda has good ideas sometimes, like telling Jon to start conversations with his mother about what's happened recently in his life, so that they aren't as likely to end up with his mom crying and Jon ignoring her for another month and feeling bad because he was too sad to deal with it. And like—

"We should call Annie," he says, and realizes it sounds a little out of the blue. He can feel Patrick's tentative pause, probably waiting for some sort of further explanation. "We haven't talked to her since—"

"We'll call," Patrick interjects quickly, trying to stop Jon before he gets any further, but that's another thing Linda taught him, so he finishes his sentence.

"Since we lost the baby."

He feels Patrick tense up, but before it gets any worse, Jon slides one of his hands out from under Patrick's shoulderblade and fumbles around until he finds Patrick's hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. Patrick squeezes back, and his breath slows again. Jon shifts his head a little on top of Patrick, until his cheek is warm against Patrick's skin.

Patrick keeps tracing patterns over Jon's scalp with his free hand, and he starts to tap his fingers one-by-one against the back of Jon's hand, still clasped together.

"She moved back with her mom, right?"

Jon nods, hears the brush of his face and hair against Patrick, echoing like he's holding a seashell to his ear. "I have the contact information somewhere. This weekend. See how she's doing."

Patrick scratches Jon's head as a form of agreement, and they don't say anything else.

 

DECEMBER

 

It's Sharpy's idea for a team Christmas party, before they all head back to their families for a couple of days. Him and Abby host it at their place, after morning skate when they don't have a game the next day. Most of the team makes it, filling Sharpy's house with laughter and warmth, good food and wine all around.

Patrick parks his fat ass by the snack table and smiles with a mouthful of Christmas cookies whenever Jon glares at him for cheating on his diet. Eventually someone declares a Mario Kart war, and they barely manage to keep their language family-friendly. Jon is on a second-place streak, and he's determined to run Duncs into the ground, only then Kaner decides it's a fucking perfect time to come over and start bothering Jon.

"Get off me, loser, I can't move my arms," Jon says, and shoulder-checks Kaner off of him, never taking his eyes off the screen. This god damn level with the fucking dinosaurs, stomping all over the place, and he can hear Kaner laughing at him but he's literally one power-up away from dominating this round.

Kaner wanders away again, only to take all Jon's good luck with him, because he gets slammed with a blue shell on the home stretch, and he's so pissed he throws his controller on the couch and gives up before he starts bashing heads in. Duncs is laughing so hard, he falls over into Seabs. "Screw you guys," Jon says and walks off to talk to someone who isn't a complete asshole, which actually limits his choices pretty severely.

Abby, thankfully, is by the side of the room and seemingly unattached to anyone at the moment. Jon walks over there, doesn't even manage to get a word out before Abby is laughing at him.

"Sharpy's a bad influence on you," he says, only half-joking.

"I don't know, Jonny, I'm pretty sure you losing your shit over Mario Kart is funny no matter what kind of humor you're subjected to constantly.

Jon huffs. She has a point.

Conversation lulls, both of them content to just stand by the sidelines and watch the others. For all that Sharpy is an immature fuck, he really outdid himself finding Abby, because she's a gem. Maddie and Sadie, too, somehow. Even though they're half Sharp.

"Your boy's having a good time," Abby says after a moment, tilting her head toward where Patrick is rolling around on the floor like an animal, pinned by two of the rookies and three children, getting tickled to death.

Jon turns up his nose a bit at the 'his boy' thing, because even if they are married, Jon's not sure he wants to openly associate himself with that. Certainly not right now, when Patrick is showing all his worst weaknesses. Losing a tickle fight, _really._

"You look good, Jon."

That startles him a bit, because even though his breakdown was pretty damn public, most people knew better than to make mention of it, at least to him. Even though Jon hates it when Kaner says it, he is a little allergic to feelings.

But it's been a while. He knows he looks more lively, happier. People aren't still walking on eggshells around him, which is how he wants it, but it doesn't mean he expects this kind of honest concern.

"I am good," he answers with a shrug, because what else is there? Him and Kaner are better, for the most part. They're out of the woods. Even if Kaner still cries sometimes, and Jon still feels a twinge of jealousy when a young fan and their parents come up for pictures and autographs. But he's learned to smile, which Kaner claims is "a miracle, Tazer, my little robot, all grown up."

"Have you and Kaner thought about—" Abby's cut off by a high-pitched whine of "Mommy" and a couple of toddlers running into her legs. She's whisked away almost immediately, called out to settle the score for a ragtag group of toddlers the way only mothers can, and she shoots Jon an amused look over her shoulder before she's gone.

He never gets the chance to ask what it was he and Kaner were supposed to have thought about, but there's always next time, since these get-togethers seem more and more frequent now that so much of the old gang is getting older and settling down. Which is a scary thought, so Jon ignores it and goes to tear Kaner away from the hors d'oveurs so they can head home, hours later.

Jon chirps Kaner the entire drive home for just how much he fucked with his diet today, even though they both know it's a half-hearted argument, because it was a Christmas party and Kaner is in the best shape of his life right now. But it feels good, to have this again, so he just keeps on going, eventually moving on to how much work the whole team is gonna need to put in to finish up the year strong, and how Q wants them to try a couple new things at practice.

He pauses to brush his teeth, but then he starts back up, not even sure if Kaner can hear him anymore, but finding it strangely calming to recite stats and talk line changeups and compatibility. He doesn't even notice how absently he's talking until suddenly, he can feel Patrick wrapping him in a hug from behind, pressing his forehead between Jon's shoulderblades. He snaps his mouth closed in the middle of a word, staring in the mirror at himself, with Patrick's arms around him, his curls peeking up just over Jon's shoulder.

"Pat?" He tries, quietly, because Patrick's breathing a little weird, and Jon's suddenly really worried.

"Sorry, I— Sorry." Patrick starts to pull away.

"It's okay," Jon says, and grabs onto Patrick's arms, holding him in place. Patrick holds onto Jon more tightly than he did before, and Jon knows he made the right call.

"I just—" Jon can't see Patrick's face, just gets the heat of his breath tickling over his spine. "Can we—" Patrick's hand shakes a little where it's wrapped around Jon's chest, and he reaches up to grab it with his own, trying to be reassuring.

They don't move for a moment, Patrick just holding tight to him and breathing as Jon's mind races to try to figure out what happened, what changed. They've been good for a while, for a really long while, and Jon hasn't seen Patrick like this in weeks. It's scaring him.

When Patrick starts talking again, his voice is wet.

"I know we haven't—haven't talked, or anything, whatever," Patrick sniffs a little, and presses his forehead more firmly against Jon's back. "But I— Not now, maybe not for a long time, but I want—" Patrick cuts himself off again, almost angrily, and takes a couple breaths. "Can we try, maybe, again. I mean, try to—try for—"

It steals Jon's breath, when it clicks what Patrick is trying to say, and he barely has enough air to squeeze Patrick's arms tighter around himself and say "yeah" quietly.

Patrick stops, stilling, and Jon can finally loosen his grip enough to turn around, grabbing Patrick by the side of the face, swiping at the tears on his cheeks. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Patrick's forehead, says "Yeah, Pat," and then presses a kiss to Patrick's lips.

Patrick lets out a gush of air into the kiss, and it's like the tension drains out of his body, going loose against Jon. They try to make out, but it only works for a few moments before they're both a little too shaky and breathy to manage it, so instead Patrick just falls forward the rest of the way, plastering himself to Jon, and burying his face against Jon's neck. Jon brings his arms up and around Pat, holding him close, breathing in what he can of Patrick's scent.

They hold each other, leaning against the bathroom counter, for about twenty minutes. They hold on until their legs start shaking with the strain of holding still for so long, until their arms are numb, until everywhere they're pressed together is overheated and sweating.

But...they're back. Jon can feel it. This was the last piece, the last thing missing. From all their conversations, every look, every kiss they've pressed against skin, or heat, every moment lying awake in the dark. It's what they hadn't been saying, all along, too afraid to shatter the life they'd barely manage to piece back together. And Jon knows neither of them would be able to do it again. Couldn't go through it again just to have it all fall apart in front of them.

But he thinks of that emptiness, cavernous and ragged at the edges, and knows that it's still there. It's not as vast, anymore, not quite wholly blank, but he doesn't want to live with that kind of weight. Can't live with that forever. And he knows Patrick can't, either.

It's worth the risk, but even if it weren't, Jon think they'd still probably do it. Because they need to. Because this is a part of them, now, and they're going to spend the rest of their lives together feeling incomplete without it.

So Jon holds on, trying to commit this to memory, trying to breathe it all in, just in case. Just in case they wind up breaking themselves beyond repair, this time.

It feels like that moment, just before the puck drops, when everything else blanks out and it's just you, your stick, the ice, the puck. Because the moment the puck hits the ice, there's no going back. It's do or die, win or lose, a heady rush of drive and drive and drive until the final buzzer. This is that moment. That quiet, breathless moment, and all Jon can do is hold Patrick close to him, and hope that this time, the puck finds the back of the net.

For both their sakes.

 

 

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

Patrick is smiling, doused in sunlight, pulling Jon out on the back porch of their home in Chicago, saying "Dance with us, Jonny." It's early summer, bright and warm and full of life, and his family is dancing on the back porch to the melodious voice of—

"Miley Cyrus, Pat, really?"

"Hey," Patrick says, pointing an accusatory finger at Jon, "I will have you know her pre-wrecking-ball stuff was awesome.

Jon just raises his eyebrows, says "You mean her Disney phase."

"The fact that you know that much about Miley makes me the winner, babe."

Jon's just about to chime in that his argument makes no sense, but that's when Chance manages to get his fingers on the volume dial, turns it up enough that the stereo is crackling, and starts shaking himself around in a vague approximation of a wet noodle.

Patrick starts doing the same thing then, only worse, and he smiles until his eyes crinkle and looks up at Jon again. His curls—grown out longer now, like they were their rookie year—are gilded in sunlight, and Jon feels an overwhelming rush of fondness for the dancing idiot.

The song changes to something Jon didn't even know existed anymore, and Patrick's grin takes over his entire face at the first note. Zoé starts moving around, trying to copy them, and Patrick wastes no time before swooping her up and holding her up as she kicks her feet around, smiling and giggling happily.

Jon is frozen in this moment, Patrick, their son, their daughter, their family, dancing on the back porch to horrible music for absolutely no reason at all. In the fall, a few short months away, Chance will start his first skating lessons (the ones he whined about for months, no matter how many times Jon and Patrick had to tell him that lessons didn't start until fall, that they couldn't make an ice rink in their backyard in the summer).

Zoé's still too young for skates, still so young that they don't even trust themselves with her when they're out on the ice, but she'll grow soon enough. Patrick swears she'll be a hockey player, the best damn hockey player the NHL has ever seen, and Jon can see it, even now, even when she seems so tiny and new.

Jon thinks Chance is going to be a figure skater, and every time Patrick balks at the idea Jon has to remind him not to tease, because their son can be whatever he wants to be. Even if he declares that he hates ice and winter and sports in general, starts dressing in weird clothes and makes art about the subtextual meaning of potatoes. ("Potatoes, Jon, really?" "Well, it's not like I know anything about art. It's blobs of paint and melting clocks and—and—stop laughing at me!" "Potatoes, Jonny. _Potatoes."_ ) Of course, Patrick always smirks and says "What if he hates ice and winter and Canada, Jonny, hmm? What then?" That's when Jon needs to either tackle him or kiss him to get him to shut up.

Their life is moving on ahead, their family growing warmer and fuller every day, and Jon counts the years in Patrick's laughter lines, in their son's finger painting and the number of mashed peas they find hidden in their daughter's hair.

Patrick counts the years in him, too, he knows. In his words, the "I love yous" he gives out like candy, the bedtime stories that just seem to multiply each night, the whispered promises each night, pressed to the back of Patrick's neck, the arch of his foot, the inside of his thigh.

It figures, that they would develop a scorekeeping system all their own, a way to measure the days like they used to measure the games in goals, the months in points, the years in cups and trophies and olympic medals. But this scoring system doesn't end when the buzzer sounds, or when the playoffs end, it keeps going on out, into the blue summer sky, further than Jon's ever dreamed to look.

And he would look for it now, would gaze out into the air to see what lies beyond, but he can't seem to tear his eyes away from this one point, a certain stupid, dancing, grinning moron, singing "you are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen" in a horribly off-key voice.

Somehow, still, he's sure the view from right here is just fine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_fin._


End file.
